


speak no feeling (you don't care a bit)

by HappyCamper27



Series: the ones we hail [4]
Category: Homestuck, Original Work
Genre: AU, This is heavily AU, and said "you're going to write me", do you hear me???, shook me around, this is an idea that grabbed me by the collar, this is not canon to the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyCamper27/pseuds/HappyCamper27
Summary: ransom notes keep falling out your mouth, mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cutouts--Or: they won, and then they didn't. Kind of.(Also: being worshipped is really weird, guys.)





	speak no feeling (you don't care a bit)

_ Once, there were twenty-four of us.  _

_ Twenty-four friends, foes, allies, enemies.  _

_ Twenty-four Players. _

_ We won. We fought, we died--and we won.  _

_ And yet, as we reached out for our reward, our paradise… _

_ Something went wrong. (What did we do wrong?) _

_ And when we woke, something was missing. _

_ There were twenty-four. _

_ And then,  _

_ There were five. _

\----

\----

The waking is jarring.

Breath rushes into lungs like ice, hands scrabble at cold gravel. Fingers are cold and aching, ice and snow in the skies above like an omen.

Others may have a kindly wakening, you know this.

But this is not them.

This wakening is to ice and cold and ruins of what-was, ancient ruins in ice and snow. This is no kindly wakening, no sweet reward.

This is _wrong_.

There are no others--simply cold and snow, dead forests for as far as can be sensed. No stretching of the senses reveals anything but more ice and snow.

It is as it always must be, it seems.

I am alone.

\----

I stand, soft slippers and thin tights, flowing skirt and twin-tailed hood like a shadow in the fog, so like a sad memory from before home was destroyed.

There is what-was, ruins, echoing with memories. _They_ hum along my mind like a prayer, singing to me.

_:Oh lord, oh beloved,:_ they call, a strange, many-tuned melody in my mind.

I turn to the ruins, spires of once-proud towers rising from ice and crystal like grasping hands, reaching for life, for light. They call with memories, with mysteries and a peaceful darkness that hums in my bones.

You do know the others had a choice, right?

The call, or seeking.

Mysteries or seeking the lost.

They choose the seeking, the helpless search for what was lost. You know this, it’s been taught to you since you could think and speak and walk.

For me?

The call is never a choice. It calls to my bones, a siren song of the unknown.

And ever, I answer.

\----

It is a dark place, singing with memories of terrible things. Dark things.

Cool and dark and peace cling to the stones like shadows, echoes of cruelty and ignorance of what-is, of foolish grasps for power and ambition like bile on your tongue.

Ambition is the killer of men, and the grace of people.

To reach for better, more, to _be_ more.

It is sweet, and hungry. And like hungry things, it consumes mercilessly, eating away morals and souls as it kills from the inside out.

It gnaws at the stones, an echo of unceasing, starving _desire_. A black pit of desperate hunger.

Black things happened here, in the name of power-hungry wants and ignorance.

_They_ sing in a chorus, whispering voices growing as I step deeper into the cold, haunted ruins.

Hungry, wanting.

And suddenly, I think I know what happened here.

Dark, peaceful, _cold_.

Consumed and devoured by what they refused to understand, eaten alive by their own hunger.

A monument to arrogance and flawed natures.

_:Oh lordling, Witchling, beloved,:_ they sing, minds curling along mine like hymns. _:Here lies only sated wishes and devoured fools.:_

Above me lies only dark clouds, snow, and ice. Dead things, life sucked away to sate the cruel hunger of fools.

_I don’t want to be here,_ I think. _This is a lesson unneeded._

It takes only a thought.

\----

Above the clouds, lights glow, rippling in the skies.

_Northern Lights,_ I think, startled. _But, no--not mine, not ours. Different._

It doesn’t really matter though.

It’s cold and hauntingly beautiful, a wash of green and pink and blue and purple, dancing across the sky. Stars glow behind the lights, a distant counterpoint.

I hover, letting the cold air wash over me as the lights sing a harmony to the hymns in my head. Wonder and something like relief are like laughter in my throat; it’s a wondrous thing, this masterpiece before me. So simple, but so perfect in every way that matters.

Shadows and lights, singing in harmony.

I almost don’t notice the tears.

\----

I don’t know how long I stay there, watching a moment hung in time. It seems to take an eternity, but that isn’t the nature of time.

Eventually, the sun rises.

It is not a true sunrise--the sun barely peaks over the far horizon, but the skies are dusted with the delicate blush of dawn turning to the soft gray of twilight, the stars fading away with the coming of light.

Eventually, I move on.

\----

The cold and ice spread for miles and miles, even past the horizon. It is not simply glaciers, ages worth of ice piling up--the ice had swallowed a city, a civilization even, and mountains yet pierce the ice. Submerged, but not entirely so.

_Is this caused by what happened there? Ice and cold swallowing all they wrought?_

It is a grim thought, but not an unjust one.

But then again, I have never been just, nor even kind; that has always beenlXR>(bwC9#nwB--

_Oh, owwww._

I stop, curling in on myself as agony rips through my head.

_:Lordling, Beloved,:_ they sing, curling away the hurt. _:It is not time for knowing.:_

But I have never been one to listen well, have I?

_Something is wrong. Why can’t I think of his name?_

I see him in my mind’s eye, see his bright smile, his weird glasses, his crooked nose, hawkish just like mine.

_Mine, my other-part, my soul-half,_ I think, pushing the burning agony away with the stubbornness of a bull. _My twin._

_Why can I not think your name?_

\----

Eventually, ice and cold and snow give way to roiling gray ocean, fading to distant blue and green. The sun is fading now, the clouds shredding and scattering, and stars returning as the soft palette of blushes and grays fades to the deep blue of night.

The stars pull at my heart, and another face drifts into my mind, a memory of kindness and understanding.

I don’t try and think of his name, I’ve tried so many others--and they all bring pain. Like a glitch, a virus, tucked away in the recesses of my brain, blocking away those memories.

And yet, the rings around my neck lie heavy and cold against my skin. _Skaia,_ I think, _I miss you, dear._

Like an answer, the eerie, beautiful lights spark and fade back into existence.

Eventually, I move on.

\----

The ocean is roiling and gray and fierce, uncaring in its force. It is unmoved by the lives it shelters, the life that curls like fire in its depths.

Live, or die.

The ocean cares not.

It is a strangely freeing thought, of the enormity of the system below, of the uncaring nature of what holds something so precious.

There is what _is,_ and what _is not_. Anything in between is irrelevant.

The ocean stretches below, slowly turning from an angry gray to a rich blue, tides and whirlpools and endless depths.

_If I don’t fly up and never come back, I think I’d like to go down, to things unseen, and never return._

And as I continue, the sky above turning more blue and blue, that seems a better idea yet.

Before I really think too hard on it--

\--I dive.

\----

The water hits me like being slapped in the face with a block of ice.

_Skaia, it’s fucking cold._

But that, like temperature has since I died the first time, feels more like a suggestion after the first bone-chilling wave.

Wetness is more of a concept than anything, and it only takes a thought to keep my clothes from soaking through and dragging me yet deeper. I’m going there anyway, why make it more uncomfortable?

The light above slowly fades, turning from brilliant fractals to soft grays to deepest black.

In some ways, it feels like coming home.

_They_ \--well, why avoid calling them what they are? It seems silly, now--the _Horrorterrors_ sing, whispering songs louder in the deep.

The deepest oceans have ever held the unknown, and the unknown has ever spawned eldritch things.

It is dark and cold place, and sings with eldritch knowledge untouched by mortal minds. It is a mystery, a threatening unknown to all outsiders but a very select few. Curiosities and creatures swim by, grotesque with bulging eyes and jagged fangs, and yet beautiful with bioluminescence. Glowing lights, in many colors, float by, hiding predators. It’s eerie, and strange, and seemingly endless.

It feels like home.

\----

I keep swimming…? Actually, what even is this? Am I just floating with direction? Hovering through the water? Flying but through water instead of air? Swimming implies effort but this is almost effortless.

I--ugh. Fine.

Swimming. It works.

I keep swimming through the deep, passing by the creatures of the depths, surrounded by cold and dark and a homeliness that I haven’t felt since Before.

Before...everything.

And even that is tainted by pain and bitterness, now.

Eventually, though, the deep ends--the seafloor rises, deep black and blue giving way to gray and blue, until finally shimmering fractals of light reach me.

_I guess that’s my cue._

I rise up to the surface of the water, letting my head break the surface. I don’t gasp for air--breathing is more of a suggestion now than anything else, really, like so many other things--and my hair is dry. _I_ am dry.

Dark, abyssal waters are apparently under my domain as much as anything else Void- and eldritch-like.

Trying to keep the shallower, quicker waters from seeping into my clothes is harder, though; I guess the lighter, freer waters aren’t too Void-y...but enough so that I can make them listen with some effort.

Kind of.

And I lied. My hair is damp. Ish. Kinda.

The water just doesn’t want to listen well, okay?

_Anyway._

Looking around, I can see land--a brilliant green mass with mountains rising high and clear above. What’s more: I can see a _port_.

Ports mean ships mean towns mean _people._

There are living people on this weird, cheating planet that Skaia gave us.

Somehow, that feels less like a relief and more like being slapped.

I...don’t really want to psychoanalyze myself and figure out why. I’d really rather make land, get dry-ish, and then get something to eat. For the first time in... _Skaia_ knows how long.

And maybe get some sleep? I’ve been awake for just as long as I’ve been without food.

I pause, thinking back over that list.

_Forgetting something…oh, right!_

I should probably try to find any of the others while I’m at it, shouldn’t I?

To the port...city? Town? Oh, hell if I know.

\----

Sand, I discover, feels absolutely awful on damp skin. I’m covered in it, and it feels a bit like sandpaper on my prickly skin.

_Huh. I wonder if this is how Kyrie and--owwwwww!_

I tip over, landing hard on my ass. Damnit, I forgot. Names are now taboo, apparently. Also, sand on my face and in my hair is even worse than on my hands. Even the drying salt is better than the sand.

_Hells, is this how you both felt? Skaia this is awful._

And then I just happened to look up and around. And there, not five feet away, was a girl. Pale blonde hair on dark, suntanned skin; wide-eyed and undeniably young.

And here I am, dressed in my godtier pjs, damp and covered in sand, tipped over on my ass.

_What the fuck._

I’ve never been the talkative type, so there we are. Me, sitting here, staring at her; her, standing there, staring at me. We’re quiet for a good few minutes that seem to stretch out into an awkward infinity.

Finally, I raise one sand-covered hand and wave awkwardly.

“Hi,” I say. Naturally, my voice cracks. Badly.

 

_Fuck my life up the ass with a goddamn cactus._

 

\----

\----

The markets are, as usual, crowded. People are shouting, hawking their wares, and sides of the streets are covered in the bright colors of cloth and finespun thread.

_The ships have been coming much of late_ , she thinks, eyeing a particularly bright swatch of blue fabric. _The storm season is reaching its end._

The blue also reminds her of the erstwhile visitor to her small home on the beach.

It’s then that a voice calls for her.

“Tas!”

She turns, and there is Ehyi, standing there and waving like a fool. “Sister Ehyi,” she greets, walking over. “What are you doing?” She pauses, and then adds quietly in her own native tongue, “You’re being stupid, walking these markets in clothes like that.”

Ehyi, priestess of the Shadow as she is, laughs her off. “And who would risk the disfavor of my brother?” Ehyi asks, her smile lilting into a smirk. “Shnáhyä has the city wrapped around his finger, Tas.”

“Only because he is the High Priest of _Ruhujuthi Zuthui_ ,” Tas counters quietly. “If that _putsu_ Áryustárat continues to undermine him, then your position becomes precarious, Ehyi. But enough of that here,” she says, straightening and switching back to Ile. “There is a good place for warm food and drink near here, and the owners do not listen overmuch to their customers. Come, come.”

She leads Ehyi through the markets, staring off the thin, reedy pickpockets who eye Ehyi’s fine clothes with a greedy look.

_Just try it,_ her gaze says. _I’d love to break your hands._

They always look away.

Once they have settled into a table, with warm food on its way and hot tea--which Ehyi insists on paying for--Tas leans forward.

“You know I would not ask to meet without good reason,” she says quietly in her native tongue. Ehyi tilts her head, and follows suit.

“I would have come regardless, Tas. I may not be officially recognized by the Synod, but I am still the High Priestess of the Shadow. You are of Them, and so you are mine to watch over.” Ehyi stares Tas down for a long moment. “You call Them _Ud Dazuyuch_ , but it is still the same. While you reside here, you are my responsibility--and if I fail that, then may They judge me when I pass on for my failure.”

It’s funny, Tas thinks for a moment. Shnáhyä is the High Priest of _Ruhujuthi Zuthui--_ the Beacon, as He is called here--and Shnáhyä is meek to his bones. Suited to being the High Priest, perhaps; but not in the classical, fierce way of Fire that is preached in her homeland.

And Ehyi, Shnáhyä’s twin sister, the smaller, quieter reflection, is the High Priestess of _Ud Dazuyuch_ , the Shadow; and so fierce it makes Tas’s bones ache under her presence.

Sun and Moon, Beacon and Shadow.

Somehow, Tas thinks it is fitting.

Ehyi watches Tas for a long moment, then smiles softly. “Now, _qáyera_ , tell me why you have requested my presence.”

Tas licks her lips, stares down into the dark depths of her own mug. Thinks back to unnatural blue eyes and strange clothes, wet and covered in sand.

“Yesterday,” she begins quietly, “a Gifted washed up on the beach.”

\----

\----

End Part 1.


End file.
